Juntando
hongos
Al
arrodillarse frente a la tumba de su madre y su padre
un
sabor a eneldo, o estragón-
que
apenas podía distinguir uno de otro-
llenó
su boca. Parecía como si pudiera ahogarlo.
¿Por
qué podría estar afligido
de dolor, no por su madre y padre,
sino
por una mujer escabulléndose de la piel de una nutria
en Portland, Maine, o, sí, Portland, Oregon-
como
si pudiera distinguir uno de otro-
¿y
por qué debería paladear el sabor
de
ella, su pequeño pepinillo encurtido,
al
arrodillarse ante la tumba de su madre y padre?
*
Miró
alrededor. La recordó discutiendo
sobre
cómo la tierra y el cielo, ambos se oscurecerían-
“apenas
distinguirías uno del otro”
Mientras
que las mariposas Monarca sobrevolaban
en su
hambre de panaderos. “El golpeteo de un ala, un pensamiento,
pueden
desatar a la madre y al padre
de todas las tormentas, golpeando tus Acantilados Irlandeses de Moher
con la fuerza de un huracán”
Luego: "Panaderos y Monarcas se "inventaron" unos a otros."
*
Buscó alrededor. Perifollo verde en un samovar.
Había confundido el nombre de su madre, “Ari” por "Ira”,
al arrodillarse ante la tumba de su madre y su padre
casi no podía distinguir uno del otro.
Paul Muldoon, Moy Sand and Gravel, 2004, Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Versión: Marina Kohon
Gathering Mushrooms
As he knelt by the grave of his mother and father
the taste of dill, or tarragon-
he could barely tell one from the other-
filled his mouth. It seemed as if he might smother.
Why should he be stricken
with grief, not for his mother and father,
but a woman slinking from the fur of a sea-otter
In Portland, Maine, or, yes, Portland, Oregon-
he could barely tell one from the other-
and why should he now savour
the tang of her, her little pickled gherkin,
as he knelt by the grave of his mother and father?
*
He looked about. He remembered her palaver
on how both earth and sky would darken-
'You could barely tell one from the other'-
while the Monarch butterflies passed over
in their milkweed-hunger: 'A wing-beat, some reckon,
may trigger off the mother and father
of all storms, striking your Irish Cliffs of Moher
with the force of a hurricane.'
Then: 'Milkweed and Monarch 'invented' each other.'
*
He looked about. Cow's-parsley in a samovar.
He'd mistaken his mother's name, 'Regan, ' for Anger';
as he knelt by the grave of his mother and father
he could barely tell one from the other.
the taste of dill, or tarragon-
he could barely tell one from the other-
filled his mouth. It seemed as if he might smother.
Why should he be stricken
with grief, not for his mother and father,
but a woman slinking from the fur of a sea-otter
In Portland, Maine, or, yes, Portland, Oregon-
he could barely tell one from the other-
and why should he now savour
the tang of her, her little pickled gherkin,
as he knelt by the grave of his mother and father?
*
He looked about. He remembered her palaver
on how both earth and sky would darken-
'You could barely tell one from the other'-
while the Monarch butterflies passed over
in their milkweed-hunger: 'A wing-beat, some reckon,
may trigger off the mother and father
of all storms, striking your Irish Cliffs of Moher
with the force of a hurricane.'
Then: 'Milkweed and Monarch 'invented' each other.'
*
He looked about. Cow's-parsley in a samovar.
He'd mistaken his mother's name, 'Regan, ' for Anger';
as he knelt by the grave of his mother and father
he could barely tell one from the other.
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